


what grace have i

by gothyringwald



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Boss/Employee Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rimming, Self-Harm, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8872474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: An AU based on the 2002 film Secretary.Credence is a shy young man who gets a job as the secretary to Mr Graves, a demanding lawyer. Mr Graves finds Credence's willing obedience irresistible and the two begin to forge a relationship that is not strictly professional.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to mention that, despite Secretary's best intentions (to show that there can be empowerment in submission and love in BDSM), it is not always the 'healthiest' depiction of BDSM - there is a lack verbal communication (in general but mostly with regards to consent, limits, etc.), little aftercare shown, etc. The fic mostly follows the movie, so it may come with some of the same issues. ( **Edit** I feel like I overstated this a bit when I initially wrote it but was quite nervous about it at the time).
> 
> There is a [prompt, here](http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/459.html?thread=26059#cmt26059), for essentially this but I had the idea a few weeks before I saw the prompt, so this isn't really a fill so much as a coincidence. But hopefully the prompter sees this. :)
> 
> Update: check out the [lovely illustrations inoiko did](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/156461333685/inoiko) of one of the scenes!!!
> 
> Update 25/2/17: changed tags to just Credence/Original Graves as when I initially posted this I wasn't sure which tags people were checking, but I feel this better reflects the characters I was writing. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first thing I've written for this pairing, or indeed in the entire Harry Potter (extended) universe, so that's fun!

_“In one way or another I’ve always suffered. I didn’t know why exactly. But I do know that I’m not so scared of suffering now. I feel more than I’ve ever felt and I’ve found someone to feel with. To play with. To love in a way that feels right for me. I hope he knows that I can see that he suffers too. And that I want to love him.”_  
-“Secretary”, dir Steven Shainberg, 2002

 

'Well, Mr Barebone,' says Mr Graves, face as serious as his name, holding Credence's crumpled resume, 'How would you like to be my new secretary?'

*

Credence pushes against the heavy, dark wood door, blood tingling anxiously through his limbs. His satchel rests over one shoulder, softly bouncing against his hip as he moves. 

He had never been in a lawyer's office before his interview, yesterday, but he never imagined they could look like this. Floral wallpaper in muted tones adorns the walls, the carpet is lush and thick, the furniture luxuriant, but welcoming. Credence runs his hand along an antique credenza, in awe at the beautiful rooms. It feels like a forest moved indoors.

Even if the office had been ugly, he thinks, Credence would love it for the chance to get away from home during the day.

It seems too quiet for anyone to be in the building, but Mr Graves had said to get there at 9am and the door was open, besides. So, he continues down the hall, to Mr Graves's office, which he remembers is wide and open, still decorated in the dark rich tones of the rest of the rooms. His battered sneakers sink into the carpet, soft as moss, silencing his uncertain footsteps.

The door is ajar and Credence wavers outside before he peeks his head in. 'Mr Graves?' he says, not seeing the man at his desk. 

'Over here,' comes a booming voice and Credence pushes the door open fully and steps into the room. He gasps as he sees Mr Graves standing by a raised garden bed filled with orchids. His new boss is cradling one of the delicate flowers in a large hand, tending to it with a gentleness that leaves Credence breathless.

'Um,' Credence says, not sure what to do while Mr Graves's attention is on the plants. The other man looks up, now, brows furrowed. 

'Ah, Mr Barebone, good morning,' he says, face clearing. He leaves the flowers and heads for his large, ornate desk. Credence stands in the middle of the room, awkward and uncertain, clutching at the strap of his satchel.

'You can type these up,' says Mr Graves, holding a stack of papers in his outstretched hand. He fits perfectly with his décor, dark tailored suit and crisp white shirt, flash of cufflinks as he adjusts his sleeves, as rich as the furniture. He almost seems to be from another time. Credence shakes himself and shuffles forward. 

'You know, you really are overqualified for this,' says Mr Graves as Credence takes the papers. 'It's very dull work.'

'I like dull work.' Credence looks straight into Mr Graves's dark eyes, hugging the papers to his chest.

A look passes over the older man's face at his words, that Credence can't identify, but it makes heat flash through him all the same.

Mr Graves swallows thickly and looks away. He doesn't say anything else. 

Credence hesitates before he turns and wanders back to the waiting room. He sets his satchel on the floor and lowers himself into the chair behind his new desk. The polished wood is smooth beneath his trembling hands. He runs a finger along the typewriter, threads a piece of paper through the roller, enjoying the grinding sound of the knob as he turns it. He relishes the astringent scent of ink and grease, a moment, before he lays the papers out beside him and sets about his task. The typewriter keys beat a steady, reassuring tattoo beneath his fingers while he works.

*

The work is dull, tedious, as Mr Graves had said, but Credence flourishes with it. The typing soothes him and he blooms under the rare praise from Mr Graves, gruff and awkward though its delivery may be. His nights are still filled with slamming doors, angry shouting, the press of metal to his flesh the only relief, but his days become calm in a way he's never experienced before. Mr Graves's office is his sanctuary.

*

From his window, Graves watches Credence struggle to get into the dumpster. He manages to get one leg over the edge, trousers pulling tight across his ass, and then hauls himself into the trash totally. Graves swallows heavily, remembering the way the boy had suggested so easily, so casually, that he could go through the trash to find the file Graves had said he misplaced. His willing obedience was becoming troublesome, distracting, but Graves cannot stop himself from challenging it, pushing it to its limits. 

Credence reemerges from the trash victorious, a proud smile across his face, bright as the sun beaming down on him. Graves's heart lurches.

He runs a hand through his hair and forces himself to turn away, sit back down. When Credence comes in, soiled files in hand, the ripe smell of the dumpster lingering, he dismisses him – 'I found another copy' – pretending he doesn't notice the boy's disappointment as he says 'oh' and stands awkwardly by his desk. Graves wilfully ignores the thundering of his own traitorous heart.

He clears his throat and, not looking at Credence, holds out the mug of coffee he'd made not ten minutes ago. 'This needs more sugar.'

'Oh, but-' He knows Credence is confused – he'd said less sugar before – but his blood feels too hot under his skin. This is the only way he knows to cool it.

'And six copies of these,' he adds, handing some documents to Credence, who takes them with his free hand.

The boy hesitates and then says, 'yes, sir,' in that tone that always sends a shiver through Graves. He bites the inside of his cheek and turns back to the file in front of him.

*

'You're closed tight...a wall.'

Credence, standing before his desk, hands by his sides. 'I know.'

'Do you ever loosen up?' For once, he doesn't turn his gaze from the younger man's.

'I don't know.'

*

It is late one afternoon when Graves, walking by the reception area, hears Credence talking, furtive. There are no appointments booked, so he peeks in and sees Credence is on the phone. 

'Tina, I don't...you know I can't.' Credence sounds distressed. 

The way he talks makes Graves wonder if this Tina is his girlfriend. He scowls. The thought rankles, curdles in his stomach. Credence slams the phone down onto its cradle, startling Graves. Credence has only ever been shy and collected. This display of anger is surprising, but welcome, a new piece of information to file away about this strange, bewitching boy.

Graves watches as Credence methodically lays a sewing kit out in front of him and several things slot into place in his mind. The neat little row of bandaids, the silvery scars, on Credence's arms when he was setting mouse traps, one day, sleeves rolled up. He'd hastily pushed them down when he saw Graves watching but he'd seen, and would never forget, them.

As Credence rolls up one sleeve, he looks up and, gaze locking with Graves's, his eyes widen. He packs the kit away again.

Graves finally turns away. The confirmation of the kit is troubling, makes his chest feel tight. He decides that he will talk to the boy, when the time is right. As he settles behind his desk, the name 'Tina' echoes in his mind and he feels an unpleasant heat surge through him at the thought Credence may have a girlfriend. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a red pen, turning it over in his hands, thoughtfully.

*

Credence startles when his headphones are pulled from his head, ears ringing in the sudden silence. He blinks, looks up into the stormy face of Mr Graves.

'Um...' Credence falters, uncertain what has happened. Was this about what Mr Graves had seen, yesterday?

The letter he typed not an hour ago appears in his vision, angry red circles around three of the words. One of Mr Graves's fingers taps at the paper. 'Three typing errors, Mr Barebone.'

Credence feels hot all over, shame prickling in his belly. 'Sorry, I-I can retype it...' He reaches for the paper but Mr Graves snatches it away.

'Do that,' he says, and drops the letter on the desk. He begins to stalk away, then turns, and says, 'And don't you ever brush your hair?'

Credence reaches a hand up to his hair and frowns. He brushes it every day.

*

'Mr Barebone, I want to see you in the library. Now.' There is a pause and, then, 'Please.'

Credence stares at the intercom a moment, then pushes away from his desk, walking down the hall. Curious, he enters the library. 

Mr Graves is flipping through a book by one of the set-in shelves, filled with dog-eared tomes. A tall floor lamp gives the room a soft, yellow glow, illuminating the strong lines of Mr Graves's face as he reads. Damask lines the walls, and there are more shelves filled with curiosities: a seashell, a pinecone, an antique desk globe, glowing. It looks more like the library of an eccentric professor, than a lawyer.

Mr Graves sets the book down when he sees Credence and crosses to sit on a taupe Chesterfield. He pats the space next to him. 'Come here.' 

Credence sits on the edge, hands wedged between his knees. 

'Is Tina your girlfriend?'

Credence blinks, wonders for a moment how Mr Graves knows about Tina, but remembers the lawyer watching him, the kit laid out on the desk. He must have heard the phone conversation, too.

'Is she?' Mr Graves prompts.

'Tina? No.' A giggle escapes him at the thought and he blushes, feeling foolish. 'She's just a friend.'

Mr Graves crosses one leg over the other, rests his folded hands on one knee. 'Are you shy?'

Credence shrugs, gaze on his lap. He squeezes his knees tighter together, the seams of his pants digging into the backs of his hands.

'I'm shy.' Mr Graves's voice is low, confidential. 

At this, Credence finally looks up. 'You're not shy. You're a lawyer.'

'I am. I overcome my shyness so I can get things done.' His tone is matter of fact but Credence shakes his head. 'I don't think you're shy.'

Once again, Mr Graves's face is inscrutable. 'I'm going to be straightforward with you, Credence. I'm your employer and so we have a set relationship. But you should feel free to share your problems with me.'

Credence isn't sure, exactly, where this is going but his heart starts pounding.

'What's going on with the sewing kit and the bandaids? Credence?'

Mr Graves's voice is kind, but Credence ducks his head and tugs at his sleeves. 'I feel...' He trails off and, at the same time as Mr Graves, says 'shy'. Credence nods, smiling despite the conversation.

There is a warmth in Mr Graves's eyes that Credence rarely sees. 'Would you like some hot chocolate?' 

The question unbalances Credence, but he nods, again. 'Um, OK.'

Mr Graves reaches behind the sofa and retrieves a steaming cup, handing it over. 'Why do you cut yourself?'

The rich, sweet scent of chocolate fills Credence's nose as he takes a sip. It is warm and soothing. 'I don't know.'

Mr Graves considers him a moment. 'Is it that sometimes the pain inside has to come to the surface and when you see evidence of the pain inside, you finally know you're really here? Then, when you watch the wound heal, it's comforting. Isn't it?'

Something unfurls within Credence, to hear Mr Graves put into words what he has never quite been able to understand himself. 'I- that's a way to put it.'

A pause, the chime of the grandfather clock in the corner, a deep breath. Mr Graves levels him with a serious look. 'I'm going to tell you something, Credence. Are you listening?'

Credence nods, eager.

'You are never going to cut yourself again. Do you understand?'

Credence doesn't even think before he says, 'Yes,' freed by Mr Graves's command.

At his quick acquiescence, Mr Graves gives a small smile. 'Now do you know what I want you to do? You're going to go to lunch early, take a long walk. Because you require relief, and you won't be doing that any more. Will you?'

'No, sir.' A strange feeling flows through Credence, through his chest, down to his fingertips, at Mr Graves's directions. He's not sure what it is, or where it comes from, but it feels good. He feels good, lighter. Unburdened by Mr Graves.

'Good boy.' Mr Graves reaches out and touches Credence's jaw for the briefest of moments – Credence's skin burning - before he blinks, as though he's surprised himself and reaches behind him, pulling out a polaroid camera.

He raises the viewfinder to his eye and Credence smiles, shy, as Mr Graves presses the shutter release. He holds the developing photo in his hand, eyes never leaving Credence.

Credence looks back at Mr Graves through the spots from the flash and thinks he might be the most handsome man he's ever seen.

When Credence walks home, that evening – feeling held by Mr Graves the whole way – he throws the kit into the river and doesn't think about it, again. Instead, his mind is on Mr Graves, feeling something growing within the other man, something intimate blossoming between them.

*

The next afternoon, as Credence sits at his desk, Mr Graves appears behind him, close, arm coming around to slam a piece of paper in front of him. It's another letter, more angry red circles. 

'More typing errors, Mr Barebone.' Mr Graves's voice is low in his ear, his cologne earthy, overwhelming.

Credence wants to lean back into the older man's warmth, even as he says, 'I-I'm sorry.'

'Don't apologise.' Mr Graves straightens and heads to the door. He stops and turns, looking at Credence. His expression shifts. 'Come to my office, Mr Barebone. Now. And bring that letter.'

Confused, Credence follows the older man down the hall to his office, letter clutched in too-warm hands. 

Mr Graves is standing in the middle of the room, hands behind his back. 'Put the letter on the desk, get your face very close to it, then read it out loud to me.'

Credence looks to the desk and back at Mr Graves. Something tugs at his mind, an inkling of meaning, but he can't grasp at it. 'I-'

'Put the letter down, put your elbows and hands on the desk and read the letter out loud.'

Heart thudding, Credence does as he's told, feeling exposed in this position, a sensation that, he finds, is not unpleasant with Mr Graves's watchful eye on him. 'Um...'

'Read the letter.'

Credence's voice wavers as he begins and before he gets past 'Dear Mr Scamander', Mr Graves's hand lands on his backside with a resounding thwack. Credence pitches forward with a gasp, looks back at Mr Graves over his shoulder. There is a challenge, a question in the older man's gaze. Credence answers it by turning back to the letter and continuing to read.

Credence can barely hear himself over the sound of Mr Graves's hand landing on his ass over and over again. His world narrows to the keen pain of the smacks, his too-hot skin beneath his trousers, the rhythmic sounds of Mr Graves's hand on him and the ragged breaths of both men. He feels like he's gasping for air but he keeps reading, heat pooling in his belly, as his skin smarts under Mr Graves's attentions.

When he breathes out, 'Yours sincerely, Percival Graves,' Mr Graves says, 'Read it again.' This time Credence doesn't hesitate, anticipation thrilling through him, satisfied when Mr Graves's hand lands on his backside, again, harder and faster this time.

His voice is louder, now, instilled with confidence though he is more breathless than before, tears glassing his eyes. The sharp pain brings a sweet release and Credence is near euphoric with it.

This time, when Credence finishes reading, Mr Graves slumps over him, face pressed to the back of his neck. His heavy breaths, matching the younger man's, are hot on Credence's tingling skin. Mr Graves's hand lands next to his on the desk and Credence hooks his pinky over his long index finger. He thinks he hears a whispered 'thank you' but can't be sure. 

Later, after he types the letter, again – 'good letter, Mr Barebone' - he goes to the bathroom, and pulls down his pants and underwear. He inspects the bruise painted over his entire backside, crafted by Mr Graves's hand. Pinkish reds darkening to purple, his blood singing under the surface of his skin. He knows it will turn to mottled blues, greens, but this bruise feels different than the others his body has carried. Special. He pushes at it, wincing, but pleasure flushes through him and when he looks up to his reflection he sees that he is smiling.

*

There is a shift in their relationship after the letter. Credence finds a desire within himself he'd never realised, or admitted, he possessed. But Mr Graves had unlocked it and he doesn't want to hide it away, again.

Credence cherishes the bruises that bloom on his pale skin under Mr Graves's large, commanding hands. Pleasing Mr Graves, relinquishing to him, fills Credence with a joy he has never known he could feel. How could he have ever imagined that the toys they play with could be tokens of affection? That crawling on his hands and knees would make him feel strong and wanted? Or that seeing the heated satisfaction on Mr Graves's face, as Credence surrendered to him, could bring such pleasure? 

Giving Mr Graves control grants Credence the liberation and power he has never had before. He finally feels free. At peace with himself for the first time in his life. 

And then there are the flashes of the gentle, tender man he'd seen his first day of work as Mr Graves had tended to the orchids. The man who uses humane mouse traps and sets the small frightened critters free, whispering 'it's OK, you're safe now' as they scamper away. It takes Credence's breath away when he is the object of that tender affection. The soft cushions that find their way to his chair, the treats left on his desk, Mr Graves's hand stroking through his hair as he says 'good work, Credence' or, rarer still, the odd 'such a good boy' whispered into his neck, after. The famished looks Mr Graves thinks Credence doesn't see. Credence isn't at all surprised to find that he is falling in love.

*

Graves is running in his living room, late one night – sweat soaked sweatpants clinging to this thighs – trying to keep Credence from his mind when he turns and sees the boy standing on the other side of his door, ghostly behind the glass. He nearly falls off the treadmill.

He takes his headphones out and crosses to open the door, standing so that he blocks its entrance into his house. Closer, he can see Credence is distressed, has been crying, and Graves has to fight the urge to pull the younger man into a crushing hug.

Instead, he only says, 'Credence?'

Credence pulls on the string of his hoodie, red-rimmed eyes boring straight into Graves. 'I wanted- I need you...'

Graves's heart leaps at the words 'I need you' but he takes deep calming breaths. 'You need me to what?'

Credence seems on the verge of a confession, is near bursting with it, but then he deflates. 'I wanted to make sure you remembered to go over the Shaw papers. For tomorrow morning.' 

Graves sags against the jamb, but he's not entirely sure it's in relief. 'I haven't forgotten.'

'OK.' Credence bites his lip and Graves wishes it were his own teeth worrying at the full, pink flesh. He digs his nails into his palms and says, 'Thank-you, Credence.'

Credence turns, then stops. Tucks his hands under his arms. 'OK, well, good night.'

As Credence walks away, shoulders hunched, Graves wants to call out to him. Bring him inside and comfort him. But his ugly desire has already touched Credence, who is too good and true. He can't let this get any deeper. 

*

And, then, Mr Graves just stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is un-beta'd, because I'm impatient, so I'm happy for spelling mistakes to be pointed out.
> 
> I've lifted some dialogue straight from the film but I'll indicate which in a note in part two, so it's all together.
> 
> Title is from _Chariots Rise_ by Lizzie West (the version she re-wrote for the film).
> 
> [Find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/), if you like! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've split what was going to be the second part into two parts, making this 3 chapters in total! But that 3rd chapter is just about done (one or two sentences tripping me up) so it should be up tomorrow. I want it all posted before Christmas! :)
> 
> Oh, and the ages of Lee and Mr Grey are never mentioned in Secretary, but I always see them as the age of the Gyllenhaal and Spader at the time, so I'm just going with the same here for Credence and Mr Graves (i.e. the ages of Ezra and Colin).

Credence tries for weeks to get Mr Graves's attention, again. He flirts, as best he can, gifts a suggestive photo of himself, and makes a lot of typing errors. But Mr Graves just treats him like a regular, old secretary. Once or twice, he tries to talk to the older man but is met with only a blank gaze and, though he is heartsick, he just stops trying. 

But then he sees the dead worm on his front lawn and inspiration strikes. He places it on a piece of paper, mails it to Mr Graves in an official looking envelope. It's childish, he knows, but he has grown desperate. When it appears in the pile of letters he leaves on Mr Graves's desk, Credence is alight with anticipation all day.

The intercom on Credence's desk buzzes, an hour before lunch, and Mr Graves's deep voice crackles through the small speaker. 'I want to see you in my office, Mr Barebone.'

Heat tingles through Credence but, eyes on the bespectacled man sitting by the window, he says, 'What about Mr Jones in the waiting room?'

There is a pause and, for a moment, Credence's heart plummets. 'Tell him I had to reschedule.' Credence grins. He dismisses Mr Jones and walks down the hall on shaking legs.

Just as on that first day, when the older man had asked Credence to read the letter out loud, Mr Graves is standing in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, as composed as ever. His black hair, threaded with silver, is slicked back in his usual style, there is barely a crease in his crisp suit, his flinty eyes follow Credence, holding a promise. 'Take down your pants and underwear and lean over the desk.'

Credence gasps. Mr Graves must take this as a sign of uncertainty, unwillingness because he says, 'I'm not going to fuck you.'

Face aflame, Credence turns around and pops the button on his trousers, unzips the fly with fumbling hands. He pushes them down past his knees and then, heat surging through him, pushes down his underwear. He leans over the desk - elbows and palms flat on its shiny surface - ass pushed out. The air is cool on his exposed backside, his thighs, goosepimpling his flesh.

There is a sharp intake of breath from behind him, the only sign that Mr Graves is still there. Long moments pass where nothing happens, the tick of the antique desk clock the only measure of time. He chances a look over his shoulder but is stopped by a hand wrapped around his neck, hot and firm. 'Don't move.'

For once, Credence feels hesitation in Mr Graves as his hand slides from his neck, fingers lingering in a near caress. A crack in his control. 'Mr Graves I want y-whatever you want.'

'Don't speak.'

And then there is a rustling, Mr Graves's breath catching, flesh moving over flesh. Credence fights a moan as he realises what the man is doing. Arousal flows through him and he has to stop himself from canting his hips forward, from trying to find contact with the desk. He stays very still, the sound of Mr Graves working himself with his hand and his shallow breaths mingling with his own breathing, the blood roaring in his ears.

A hot splash on his lower back, down his ass, follows a low, strangled moan, and Credence feels like he's glowing, though he is not the one who has just come.

He stays with his hands and elbows in place, knees trembling and cock hard, until Mr Graves says he can move, his voice wrecked. Credence fixes his clothes back in place and looks up at Mr Graves for the first time since he came into the room. There is little evidence of what has just happened, his usual composure regained, but Credence knows what to look for: the heat in his eyes, the slight slackness of his jaw, mouth open. Credence wants badly to kiss him.

'Thank-you Mr Barebone, you can go to lunch early, today.'

Credence shifts, resisting the urge to press his hand to his erection. 'Yes, sir.' 

Mr Graves doesn't say anything else, so he turns to leave, walks awkwardly to the bathroom, locking himself in one of the stalls. He fumbles with his pants pushing them away with his underwear again. He reaches back and feels the wetness there, gathers what he can over his fingers and takes himself in hand, spreading Mr Graves's semen over his length with a moan.

He braces himself against the wall with one hand, working his cock in short, fast strokes with the other. He thinks of Mr Graves, his dark eyes, the curve of his mouth, imagines the man's elegant hands on him, all over him, inside him. It's not long before he's spilling his own release, Mr Graves's name breaking over his lips as he comes.

*

Graves's stomach churns. He runs a hand over his face. What is wrong with him? How could he want this, how could he do this to Credence? 

He stands, begins to pace, feeling hot all over, a near unbearable pressure in his head. He shirks off his jacket, too warm, and sees his shirt is soiled, a damp stain, stark against the pale blue, accusatory. His head spins and he rubs at the spot, breath coming too quickly. 

The pressure within him builds to breaking point and he goes through the office while Credence is at lunch, purging all evidence of their affair. The framed letter that started it all is pulled from its hook, thrown to the floor, glass crushed beneath his heel. The boudoir photo left on his desk with a single red rose – Credence stretched along a bed, head at the foot looking at the camera upside down, feet resting on silk cased pillows, wearing only tight black briefs and nipple clamps – gets the same treatment. 

He digs out the polaroid he'd taken, that day he told Credence he'd never cut himself again, and sets it alight, watching the smiling image of Credence curl in on itself. Acrid smoke wafts up as the flames consume the photograph. His stomach clenches.

Finally, he sits at Credence's typewriter and, with shaking hands, types:

_Dear Credence,_  
_This is disgusting. I'm sorry._  
_I don't know why I'm like this._

He lays his head on the typewriter for long moments, heart aching, and then he tears the paper out and rips it into tiny pieces.

*

Credence returns from lunch, buoyed by his earlier encounter with Mr Graves. He is not so naïve to think this means they're boyfriends, now, that they ever were, but Credence hopes he can show the older man that they could be more, so good together.

But as he walks down the hall, bag containing Mr Graves's sandwich in hand, a sinking feeling replaces his joy. On the floor lie the tokens of their growing love – the letter with typos circled in red, the photo – shattered and discarded. Credence steps gingerly around them on his way to Mr Graves's office.

'What happened?' He gestures to the hall but Mr Graves, sitting at his desk, doesn't look up.

'I think you should collect your things.' As he talks, voice steady, he gathers up the stack of papers in front of him, tapping them on the desk. He sets them aside and pulls out another file, eyes never rising to look at Credence.

The room spins around him. For a moment, Credence wonders if Mr Graves is playing another game, but in his gut something feels off. 'My things? I-' 

'This isn't working out. I'm sorry.' Silence engulfs the room in the wake of Mr Graves's softly uttered words.

'What 'this'? Us?' Credence moves closer, stands by Mr Graves's side behind his desk. This is definitely not one of their games. He doesn't understand – what could have happened between when he left for lunch and now?

Mr Graves doesn't answer and Credence feels like all the air has left the room. The paper bag falls to the floor. 'Whatever I did, I can fix it. Please.'

'It's not- I can't do this.' Mr Graves rests his head in his hands, jacket pulling across his shoulders. This is the first time Credence has seen such a display of emotion from the older man and he reaches out, to comfort him, but Mr Graves jerks away. 

'You have to go or I won't stop.' Mr Graves stands, now, moves to a filing cabinet, putting away the documents he had been working on. Credence follows, close behind. 

'I don't want you to,' he says reaching for the older man, again, but he only moves away, sits heavily in a dusty rose armchair. 'I cannot do this anymore.' Mr Graves folds his hands into his lap. 

Credence stands by his side, sinks his fingers into the older man's hair as he has done so many times to Credence himself. 'But I want to know you.' And Credence does, he wants to know everything about Mr Graves – where he was born, where he went to school, when he first had his heart broken – wants to love him.

For one moment, Mr Graves leans into Credence's touch, eyes closed, and Credence's heart leaps. But then he shifts away, crosses his leg in a gesture that closes him off to the younger man. His voice is low when he says, 'I'm so sorry for what's happened between us. I made a terrible mistake.' Then, louder, as though he hasn't shattered Credence's world, he adds, 'You can count on me for excellent references.'

'I don't want references, Mr Graves, I want to be with you.' Silence stretches out between them, and Credence sees the anguish on Mr Graves's face, knows it must be reflected in his own. 

Finally, the silence is broken, and Credence can hardly breathe when Mr Graves says, 'You can't. I can't. I'm sorry. I have to let you go.'

Never has a sentence been laden with more double meaning, Credence thinks, tears welling. He blinks them away but more come. Mr Graves traces the path of one down his cheek with his eyes.

He tears his gaze away, says, 'Get out.' The quiet words echo, impossibly loud, in the still air of the room.

'What?' Credence's ears start ringing. He doesn't move, too stunned.

'Get out,' Mr Graves repeats, louder now.

Bile rises up in Credence's throat, his face flushed uncomfortably hot. His arms are heavy at his sides. 'Please.'

Mr Graves stands, eyebrows knit in apparent anger, but his voice comes out soft, choked. 'Get out. Please.' 

Credence stays a moment longer, looks at this man who has set him free, only to let him go, then finally leaves Mr Graves's office. He walks to his own desk on unsteady legs. Tears spill down his cheeks, cooling his heated skin. He wipes them away with a clumsy hand. His belongings are thrown haphazardly into a box in his haste to leave the office, the thought that he may never come back completely surreal. Halfway home he has to stop, putting his box down, quickly, so he can throw up. But even heaving up his lunch does nothing to quell the sick feeling within him.

*

All the colour seems to drain from life, again, after Credence is fired. He gets up every day, dresses and leaves the house as though he still has a job, has not had his heart broken. It is easier to bear the pretence than to face staying at home with his mother. Some days, he goes by the office and watches the building, but mostly he just wanders around, aimless and adrift.

Not for the first time he wishes he had someone to turn to, to ask for advice, but his only friend is Tina and he just doesn't know how to broach the subject with her, can never find the courage.

Instead, he reads books about what he and Mr Graves do – or did – about submission, how to navigate these relationships, what to expect, the love and freedom to be found within them. He sends a copy of his favourite to Mr Graves but he never knows if the other man gets it. 

And, then, he tries dating, tries to get over Mr Graves – answers ads, looks at dating sites, even goes to a club, one night – but, though he learns more about his desires, what he does and doesn't want, it's too soon. Maybe before all of this he could have found someone. But now he just wants Mr Graves. How can he get the other man to see that the way they love isn't wrong?

*

On the day of his mother's wedding, watching the sombre expressions of the bride and groom in the stifling tent, Credence finds he can't breathe. He loosens his bowtie and collar but it's not his clothes restricting him, it's something inside. He needs to get out. Surprised cries follow him as he runs from his place at the head table, dodging guests and plastic furniture, but he pays them no heed. Instead, he lets his pounding feet carry him through the dark streets, all the way to Mr Graves's office.

He bursts through the front door and runs down the hall, doesn't stop until he is before Mr Graves, hands braced on his legs, lungs burning.

Mr Graves is on the floor, doing sit-ups, hair mussed. Jacket discarded - draped over the wingback chair that sits behind his desk - he wears his dark waistcoat, damp under the arms, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Credence is momentarily distracted by the sight of his forearms. 

'Credence?' Mr Graves's usual unflappable demeanour seems ruffled by the boy's appearance.

'Mr Graves...' His breath comes in heaving pants, and he can't quite catch it. 

Still on the floor, braced on his elbows, Mr Graves's gaze travels down Credence's body, eyes boggling as they land on his clothes. 'Are you...getting married?'

Credence shakes his head. 'What?' He looks down at his rumpled tuxedo. 'Oh. No. I ran out of my mother's wedding.'

'Oh.' Mr Graves slumps, slightly. Does he look relieved? Credence wonders, but doesn't want to get his hopes up, yet.

The other man finally stands, smoothing down his trousers, before he crosses his arms, leaning back against the desk.

Credence's gaze drifts over the office: along the chrome lamps, the marquetry coffee table, the jacquard curtains that match the sofa, to the orchid filled flower bed and back to Mr Graves. He swallows heavily under the expectant gaze the older man fixes him with. 'I love you, Mr Graves. Percival.'

A sharp intake of breath. Mr Graves turns from him, one hand curled over the edge of his desk. 'I don't believe that can be true. I'm sorry.'

Anger flares within Credence. He moves so he can see the other man's face. 'Don't. Don't tell me how I feel. It is true. I love you.'

'You need to leave.' Mr Graves doesn't meet his eyes.

Credence shakes his head, hands clenched into fists at his side. 'No.'

'No?' Mr Graves's eyebrows raise.

'No.' Credence straightens his frame, using the small height difference to his advantage for once. Mr Graves meets his gaze, now, for a moment before he looks away, again. He sighs, a mournful sound. 'Credence, we can't do this. It's not- we can't do this all the time.'

'Why not?' 

Credence moves around the desk and sits in Mr Graves's chair. There is a sorrow, a loneliness, deep inside Mr Graves, Credence sees that now. He wants to tease them out, soothe this beautiful man. 'It's not wrong to want this, Mr Graves. I want this.' 

Mr Graves looks at him for long moments, dark eyes burning, before he finally says, 'Put both of your hands on the desk. Palms down.'

The words thrill through Credence and he does as told, polished wood cool beneath his clammy hands. 

'Keep both of your feet on the floor until I come back,' Mr Graves adds and then he is gone and Credence is alone.

*

Credence isn't sure how long he's been sitting at Mr Graves's desk, hands flat against the polished mahogany, palms slowly growing damp, but it must have been a few hours, at least. Some part of him registers that he shouldn't be certain that Mr Graves will come back, but he believes, he knows, that he won't be left here alone. And no matter how long it takes, he won't move, he'll prove himself. His bladder is painfully full, his stomach empty, his limbs ache and his hands tingle, but he finds that space within himself that he can only find with Mr Graves, and just lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) Feel free to [find me on tumblr](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :) 
> 
> (Is posting this close to a holiday a bad idea???)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! This is basically just fluff and smut (smuff?). (Well, fluff-ish).

Graves spends a restless night thinking of Credence. He sleeps on the bare floor beside his bed, knowing Credence won't be comfortable, either. The hard wood beneath him digs into his shoulders, his hip as he rolls over. But even this doesn't steady him. 

He rolls onto his back, undershirt sliding along the polished floorboard, skin sticking where his shirt rides up. He hadn't let himself think about how much he missed Credence until the younger man appeared in his office, face flushed prettily, wearing a tuxedo that sent Graves's mind reeling into places he didn't want it to go.

Tenderness wells up inside of him at the thought of Credence – beautiful, submissive Credence – sitting alone, waiting for him. Credence who loves him. Has seen the ugliness that dwells inside of him and professes to love him, still. He turns onto his side, blanket pooling around his hips. Maybe it isn't so ugly, after all.

Credence has opened up to him, he thinks, given him everything, the most precious gift – isn't it time he gives something back? He dresses quickly, grabs his car keys and, stopping on the way for food and drink, drives to his office with new determination.

The building is dark but light still shines from the crack under his office door. Heart pounding, he pushes it open, and finds Credence sitting exactly where he left him, hours before. He looks exhausted, fighting to stay awake, and he is the most lovely thing Graves has ever seen.

He sinks his hand into the younger man's hair, around his neck, Credence leaning into the touch. Closer, he can see his trousers are damp. Graves flushes, proud. Hazy brown eyes blink up at Graves, a small dazed smile curving full pink lips. 'You came back.' He doesn't sound surprised, quite the opposite, but still, Graves answers, 'Of course.'

Cradling his jaw with one big hand, he lifts Credence's head, bringing the juice to his mouth with his other. 'Drink,' he says. 'You did so well. Such a good boy.' He leans down and presses a kiss to Credence's temple as he drinks. 'I'm so sorry I left you.'

Credence's head lolls against the desk when he releases him to set the juice down. He strokes one hand along the stretch of his pale neck, before he hooks an arm beneath Credence's knees, the other under his arms around his back. Credence immediately presses his face to the crook of Graves's neck, nuzzling against the warmth. 

Graves carries him up to the bathroom above his office, cradling him to his chest, finally acknowledging how precious this man in his arms is to him. Racks of bottles and potted plants line the exposed brick walls and he navigates between them to gently lay Credence down. He kneels over him, leaning down to cup his face. 

'Are you OK?' he asks. The scent of orchids, almost like jasmine, infuses the air around them. Credence nods, breathes in deeply, and then they don't talk again as Graves undresses him, pale skin revealed slowly under his careful hands, peeling away the layers of Credence's clothes. 

A pained sound escapes him as Credence's scars are revealed – not all self-inflicted – and Credence shoots him a troubled glance, then, but he soothes it away soon enough. Leans in again and murmurs 'you're beautiful' against his ear. 

Credence makes a pleased, happy sound, reaches up to stroke his neck, fingers pushing into his hair. Graves smiles, the touch warming him, but pulls away, Credence's hand following him, hanging in the air after he's gone. He doesn't speak as he moves to the clawfoot tub, turns the taps on, but he watches Credence watching him, lying on his side, propped up on one hand. Naked and glorious in the dim, warm light. 

Graves allows himself to drink the sight in as the water fills the copper tub. When it's full, he carries Credence to the tub, settles him into the water, which laps around him. Credence lets out a pleased sigh, long fingers curled easily over the edge of the tub.

Graves lathers shampoo in his hands, floral, musky, massages it through Credence's hair. His head falls back, elegant neck arched, soft pleased noises falling from his lips and something not at all unpleasant unfolds within Graves to know that he can give this simple pleasure to him. He washes every inch of Credence, cleansing him, from the top of his head, down to his toes. A soft giggle escapes Credence as he reaches his feet and Graves takes a moment to run a finger along the arch of one. Another giggle, and Credence slips out of his grasp. Ticklish, Graves thinks. Interesting, and not a little endearing.

When he is clean, he dries Credence's body reverently, kneeling before him, supplicant. He takes his hand, leads him to a small curtained area where there is a bed, for the nights Graves works too late and doesn't make it home. Credence lies down, stretching out, completely unselfconscious. Graves marvels at the sight before him, dark hair - under his arms, across his chest, converging into a thin line that flares again between enticing hipbones - so stark against pale skin that stretches tight over sharp, yet delicate bones. Credence takes his breath away. 

The younger man smiles, sleepy, and nudges him with a toe. Graves shakes himself and takes off his own damp shirt and trousers, leaving his undershirt and briefs on, before lying next to Credence, who watches him carefully.

His eyes are a little clearer now but still that dreamy faraway look on his face. Graves brushes his bangs aside, cups his face and leans down and kisses him, sweet but firm. When he pulls away, Credence is smiling, wide and beautiful, up at him. 'What?'

'Our first kiss.' Credence is breathless, pink lips shining with spit. Graves runs his thumb along them, heart clenching, then he leans down and kisses Credence again. 

The younger man slides his hands around Graves's neck, fitting their bodies together from shoulder to toe. Graves relishes the feeling, the heat of Credence's soft skin against his warming something he hadn't realised had been cold for so long, before he pulls away. He brushes his hand over Credence's face, again. 'Time for sleep, now. You need some rest.'

Credence only nods and snuggles into Graves. He wraps his arms tighter around the younger man's lithe frame and whispers into his neck, 'You did so well, Credence,' and then, quieter still, 'I love you, too.'

*

Some time later, Credence awakes feeling safe and impossibly warm. It takes a moment to remember where he is and a sleepy smile spreads over his face when he does. Mr Graves is already awake, watching him. 'Sleep well?'

Credence nods and shifts so he can comfortably look at the older man. He presses a kiss to the hot palm that cradles his face. 

They kiss, again, tongues meeting now. It could be addictive, Credence thinks, as he shuffles closer, hooks his ankle over Mr Graves's calf. The cotton of his briefs, his undershirt, is soft against Credence's naked skin but he wants to only feel Mr Graves against him. 

He rests a hand on Mr Graves's stomach. 'I want...'

'What do you want?' Mr Graves kisses the hollow of his throat.

Credence gasps and says, 'I want you naked, Percival.'

Mr Graves smirks, and shucks off his remaining clothes, holds Credence to him, stroking his hand down Credence's back, over his scars. The older man's hands on him soothing, healing, as they kiss. Credence's hands wander over Percival's body, mapping his contours. Arousal thrums beneath his skin, building steadily as they caress each other.

'I want to make you feel good, Credence', Mr Graves whispers against his throat. 'Tell me what you want.'

Credence, head swimming from touching all over, blurts, 'I um. I want you to fuck me.'

Mr Graves swallows audibly and Credence adds, 'However you want to. Just. That's what I want.'

'Then that's what you'll get,' says Mr Graves, taking Credence's hands and kissing them. 'Can I tie your hands?'

Credence frowns. 'With what?'

Mr Graves fumbles with his discarded clothes and produces a belt. It's worn, but clearly expensive, and Credence's heart leaps, his throat tight. In his mind's eye he sees another belt, wielded by a cruel hand. He shakes his head and chokes out, 'No'.

'Shh, it's OK. No belt?' Mr Graves takes his face in his hands. Credence looks up at him, sees his brow is furrowed in concern. It releases a little tension and he shakes his head, again. 'Anything else but, no - no belt. Please.'

'No belts,' says Mr Graves, spooling the leather strip around his hand and throwing it across the room. 'I'll start wearing suspenders from now on, just for you.'

A laugh bubbles out of Credence, dispelling his worry, bringing him back to the present. Mr Graves has never joked like this with him before. He likes seeing this side of the man. 'You can still wear them if you want. You'd look dashing in suspenders, though.' 

Another smirk and a quick kiss. Mr Graves reaches behind him, again. 'There's always my tie, or would you rather I use it like this?' He asks, bringing the tie up as though to put it over Credence's eyes.

A spike of heat shoots through him at the thought and he nods, eagerly. 'Yes.'

'OK. And do you think you can be very quiet for me? And not come until I say so?' Mr Graves's hot voice curls around him, through him, settles low in his gut.

This doesn't feel all that different from everything else they've done, with Mr Graves guiding him, but there is still an edge of nervousness, of excitement as Credence answers, 'Yes, sir.' 

'Good boy.' Mr Graves strokes his hand over his jaw and then ties the blindfold in place, silk soft against Credence's skin. It's not as disorienting as he thought it would be, with Mr Graves there to look after him. The older man arranges Credence on the bed, face pushed into the pillow and ass in the air. 

A thought occurs to Credence. 'Wait.'

Mr Graves stops, hands resting, firm, on Credence's thighs.

'What happens if I don't? You know, stay quiet and everything.'

Mr Graves leans over him and whispers, 'Then you'll be a very naughty boy and I'll have to spank you, won't I?' A shiver runs through Credence. 'Yes, Mr Graves.'

Mr Graves takes his hands and folds Credence's fingers around the wrought iron poles of the bed frame. They're cool, a little rough. 'Hold on like this and don't move your hands. If you want me to stop, tap three times. Understand?'

Credence swallows. 'Yes, sir.'

His smile is practically audible as Mr Graves says, 'Now, no more noise.'

Credence hears Mr Graves move behind him, feels the older man's hands curl around his hips, the bed dipping and shifting with his weight. He expects Mr Graves's fingers, perhaps, but not the swipe of what is undoubtedly Mr Graves's tongue from taint to tailbone. He has to bite down on his lip, hard, to stop from making any noise.

As Mr Graves works his mouth and tongue over him, kissing and licking, soft and rough all at once, he takes deep steadying breaths. It's an exquisite torture, Credence thinks, before Mr Graves finally pushes his tongue inside. He grips the bed frame harder, hips tilting back. His head spins with the thought that Mr Graves's tongue is inside him, thrusting in and out, and he bites his lip harder still. The metallic tang of blood hits his tongue.

Finally, Mr Graves pulls away and Credence doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved. Before he can decide, one of Mr Graves's fingers, slick now, pushes inside him. He twists and pumps, adding a second finger, opening Credence up. It feels strange, Credence thinks, but good. Then the fingers twist, crook, and Credence has to bite down on the pillow, eyes squeezed shut tight.

A soft chuckle and the fingers are gone, Mr Graves's cock pushing inside of him, slowly. He gives Credence time to adjust to being stretched, impossibly, around him. Credence never imagined it would feel- never knew he had all this space inside of him, waiting, needing to be filled. 

Mr Graves says 'let go of the bed frame', pulls Credence up onto his knees, and he sinks further and further, spread across Mr Graves's lap. Mr Graves's thighs are hot beneath his. Big hands guide Credence's to the top of the frame - 'hold on again, no moving' - and then he is finally, finally being fucked.

Mr Graves's arm is a hot brand across his chest, holding him in place as Credence holds onto the bed. Hips roll up, sinuous, fucking Credence sweetly, and Credence tilts his hips back to meet the thrusts. Hands slide from his chest, down to his hips, grabbing hard, bruising. 

'So gorgeous like this, Credence, made for my cock, weren't you?' But Credence can't answer, can only let his head fall back, cheek brushing Mr Graves's. He nods, hopes the other man feels it.

The push and pull of Mr Graves's cock inside him is overwhelming. Perfect. Pure. And then everything narrows to touch, sound, taste. The susurration of skin sliding against skin. Mr Graves a solid weight, warm behind him. Soft grunts from Mr Graves, his own strangled breaths as he tries to keep quiet. Sweat trickling down his forehead, pooling in his bellybutton, below his throat, prickling along his upper lip. He licks there, tastes salt.

Hands roam again, up his chest. Mr Graves twists his nipple, says 'I'm going to buy you some clamps, like that photo you gave me. You looked so perfect like that.' Credence swallows a whimper, head falling forward. Sharp teeth sink into his nape, briefly, followed by the swipe of a hot tongue.

Too soon, and before he's been told he's allowed to, Credence feels his orgasm building. He taps on the frame and Mr Graves stills immediately.

'Are you OK, baby? What's wrong?' Hands rest on his stomach, not moving, a comforting pressure.

Credence's heart swells at the concern in the older man's voice, at the endearment. 'I can't- I won't last. Much longer. I'm sorry.' His voice breaks.

'Shh, it's OK, you're doing so well, sweetheart.' Mr Graves kisses his neck, rubs one hand over Credence's stomach. 'You can make as much noise as you want, now. Come whenever you need to. But keep your hands where they are. OK?'

Relief flows through Credence, not at the permission, but that Mr Graves isn't disappointed with him. 'Yes, sir. But w-what about the spanking? Will you still-'

Mr Graves slides a hand between them, settles it on Credence's ass, squeezes his cheek hard. 'Later. Tomorrow. Don't worry. You've been so good for me. So perfect.'

And then Mr Graves is fucking him again, whispering in his ear over and over what a good boy he is, biting at his lobe. Credence gasps and moans, right on the edge, so close but not close enough, tears spilling over his cheeks.

'Do you need me to touch you, sweetheart?' Mr Graves asks on a particularly brutal thrust that leaves Credence breathless, aflame with pleasure as he answers, 'Yes, please,' crying properly now.

Mr Graves's hand works over his cock, in time with his thrusts, and it doesn't take long before Credence is spilling his release, crying out 'Mr Graves!' hands clenching at the bed frame, white knuckled.

He slumps, boneless, in the wake of his orgasm, but Mr Graves grips him harder, holds him in place, pumps up until Credence can feel his release, hot, deep inside of him. A groan escapes him.

They stay kneeling, listed sideways, their chests heaving in sync, until the older man pulls Credence back with him to the bed. He's still inside Credence, spooning him, as he says, 'My beautiful, sweet boy. You did so well. I'm so proud of you.'

Credence's stomach flips. 'Thank you.' Mr Graves's hands leave their place on his chest for a moment, so he can undo the blindfold, setting it somewhere Credence can't see. He blinks, thankful for the dim light in the room.

Mr Graves rearranges Credence so they're facing. He frowns and runs his thumb over Credence's lip. 'You're bleeding.'

Credence had forgot about that. 'Oh.'

'I'll kiss it better.' Mr Graves leans in and kisses him, sweet and so soft. 'You were so good for me, Credence.'

'Thank-you.' Credence's heart flutters. He adds, coy, 'I just want to be good for you, Mr Graves.'

A fond smile graces Percival's face, now, and he strokes his hand over Credence's shoulder, down his flank, the trail tingling under Credence's skin. Credence takes his time to look at the older man, eyes travelling over the breadth of his shoulders, the dip of his waist, the strong curve of his thighs. Sweat glistening over his skin. Emboldened, Credence presses a kiss to Percival's jaw. 

Percival sighs, happily, Credence thinks. 'I'd love to stay here forever, but I should get you home.'

Credence's stomach plummets. Home. He'd forgotten anything outside of these walls existed. How can he go home again, after knowing this bliss?

Distress must show on his face because Percival is gripping his arm and saying, eyes wide, 'No. No, I'm not letting you go back there.' One hand trails over Credence's back, his scars, squeezes his hip, the other takes Credence's hand. 'I meant...' he trails off with another sigh.

'What did you mean? Percival?' Credence reaches up and cups the older man's jaw.

Percival presses into Credence's palm. 'Come with me. To my-our home.'

'Our home? Are you...asking me to move in with you?' Credence doesn't dare to hope-

Percival nods. 'Yes.'

Credence thinks he might cry again so he kisses Percival, long and hard, until his lungs ache. 'Then, yes. Let's go home.'

*

_Each cut, each scar, each burn, a different mood or time. I told him what the first one was, told him where the second one came from. I remembered them all. And for the first time in my life I felt beautiful. Finally part of the earth. I touched the soil and he loved me back._  
-“Secretary”, dir Steven Shainberg, 2002

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, all done! Thanks to everyone who's read/commented/left kudos. It means a lot! I have a few other ideas for this pairing but, whether or not I write them, is another thing. (I've started a Beauty and the Beast AU but not sure how far I'll get haha). Either way, this was fun. 
> 
> Find me [on tumblr if you like](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> A few things:
> 
> I think I've read 'from taint to tailbone' in at least one other fic but I can't remember where, so apologies if I inadvertently borrowed it from you! I'm also still pretty new to writing smut.
> 
> I left off the epilogue bit of the film for now but maybe one day I'll add something like that?
> 
> I'll make a tumblr post with all the quotes/dialogue I borrowed from _Secretary_ sometime in the next week and link back here. I'm just too tired to do it, today!


End file.
